


Urges Sated, Satisfaction Waning

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bechdel Test Pass, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Morality, F/F, Murder Family, Season/Series 02, Treat, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You will do what you think is best,” Bedelia says, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Which I commend. But you know that I must do the same.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urges Sated, Satisfaction Waning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emerla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerla/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this little treat! I've always wanted to do a Murder Wives AU, and I hope this is up to standards. It's basically all an AU--Hannibal and Will aren't even mentioned, so their existence is debatable in this AU. I'm afraid I kept a much-hated canon character death in this fic as well because I wanted all female characters.

The night is cold and wet, the rain falling in fat drops against the big bay windows in front of Bedelia’s study. A fire roars and warms them as they sit in the overstuffed parlor chairs. Abigail sits cross-legged on the floor between them, a book open in her lap. _And Then There Were None_ by Agatha Christie.

“I don’t know what to do,” Alana says, chin trembling but voice remaining steady.

Abigail glances up at Bedelia, but Bedelia just gives a sharp jerk of her chin. “Abigail, will you please bring us coffee? You know how the machine works.”

Abigail nods and closes her book. Alana notices she didn’t mark the page. As she heads towards the kitchen, Abigail swiftly dodges the body on the floor, her socks not catching a drop of the blood soaked into the carpet.

“Now, what were you saying, dear?” Bedelia crosses one leg over the other, her navy silk skirt settling like petals around her thighs.

“You didn’t need to kill her,” Alana whispers. She can’t bear to look at Beverly’s body, can’t bear to see her that way. She didn’t know her well, but she _knew_ her, and now she’s just flesh. “I thought you had restraint. What happened to not making rash decisions?”

“Technically,” Bedelia says, glancing at the letter-opener still clutched in Alana’s hand, “ _you_ killed her.”

“I tried to _save_ her,” Alana says desperately, and for a second, believes it. She remembers enough from her residency to know acutely that Beverly’s wounds were fatal and that the removal of the weapon only quickened her death. But Alana doesn’t enjoy suffering. She doesn’t enjoy it, but she’s never known exactly how to _stop_ it.

“Well, then, Abigail killed her,” Bedelia says icily, glancing idly towards the kitchen.

Alana closes her eyes, but she can’t wipe the image. As she shucked her jacket earlier and tried to staunch the bleeding from Beverly’ chest and throat, she yelled to Abigail to help, to put her hands over Beverly’s throat and stop the gushing blood, but Abigail just stood by Bedelia and _watched_ , fingers stroking her own scar on her neck. Abigail was a perfect cross-section of her and Bedelia—she was both indifferent to the suffering of others and knew nothing about how to quell it.

Alana fears and reveres her in the same way she does Bedelia. In the same way she does _herself_.

“How does this end?” Alana knows how it started—friendly consultation, nights of tea and beer, a professional curiosity between two curious professionals. The idea that Bedelia’s icy exterior revealed a warm core and the realization that she was just frost through and through. A kiss that tasted like blood.

“That’s not my decision to make, Alana,” Bedelia says, voice measured. “I know that Abigail and I will go to Italy and live together. Free of watching eyes,” she smiles when Abigail re-enters the room with a tray of coffee, “and free of pain.”

For a brief moment, just a spark in time, Alana realizes how easy it would be to go with them, to live among the vineyards and chapels, to sleep in Bedelia’s bed, to watch Abigail grow into an adult. But the in-between, the past, the unsteady future—it wouldn’t be easy.

“And me?” She asks, eyes still on Bedelia.

“You will do what you think is best,” Bedelia says, taking a slow sip of coffee. “Which I commend. But you know that I must do the same.”

Alana closes her eyes and tightens her grip around the bloody, sticky hilt of the letter-opener.


End file.
